My oldest child turned 12 this week. This baby girl, whom I just brought home from the hospital last week, is nearly a teenager.

How did this happen?

In the beginning, it was a survival story – hers, and mine. Having a newborn is intense at best, with an overall effect best described as cataclysmic.

It turns a woman into a mother and a couple into a family. It also turns a well-educated, relatively rational and stable person into a raving lunatic, brought on by a strong cocktail of hormonal imbalance and sleep deprivation. Understandably, I don’t remember much about those early days.

But I do remember Abby teaching herself to roll over, with giggles, on her first Christmas. She lay on her tummy and rocked to one side, then the other, then back again, chuckling and chortling until, in triumph, she landed on her back, stared at the ceiling, and laughed some more. I hope she’ll always approach each new challenge with such good humor.

I remember her at 3 years old, a proud big sister to her two-month-old baby brother. I remember her initial reluctance to go to preschool, and her eventual adjustment. I remember her at 4, when we were discussing the impending arrival of yet another baby brother.

“Abby,” I said, “we named you with an A-name, and your brother Brian’s name starts with a B. What should we name the new baby if we want to use a C?”

She thought for a minute, considering. “Corn,” came her reply. (We broke the pattern and went with “Timothy.”)

Before I knew it, Abby was in kindergarten. Boys were holding her hand in first grade. She started violin lessons in second, fell in love with dogs in third and decided to become a veterinarian in fourth. When we brought home our Schnauzer mix, Maisy, in the summer before fifth grade, I thought she’d never ask for another thing as long as she lived.

While she’s not a kid who needs a lot to be happy, she has turned into a person with her own tastes, as I found out when we were choosing eyeglass frames together. I suggested a nice wire-rimmed style, and the optician told me gently that those were a little old for her.

“Yeah,” Abby agreed, with a pointed look my way.

At 12, Abby is an independent, bright, good-hearted kid who, shall we say, has to learn more about the fine art of compromise. I reflect on my own teenage years, and shudder to remember how I treated my own mother. What goes around comes around, and I’m about to get walloped from behind, I’m afraid. The next eight years will be no picnic.

But when I’m tempted to send her to her room, or to boarding school; when I’m ready to ground her until she’s 30; when I’m hurt by her thoughtlessness or angered by her insolence – I hope I can remember the giggling girl who found the ceiling on Christmas and wanted to name her baby brother after a vegetable.